


Living Inside the Question

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grieving, Missing Scene, Spoilers for 6.06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3169190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter stays up at night and talks to Neal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living Inside the Question

**Author's Note:**

> Title from EliseM's Winter Solstice shinies. Many thanks to mergatrude for beta.

In some ways, it was a relief to see Neal in reflections or at his desk. (Peter still couldn't assign that desk to anyone else, even after all these months.) At least the visions weren't talking to him anymore, and he wasn't talking back.

 

*

 

"It wasn't your fault."

2AM. Peter was tired and wakeful, sitting on the couch doing nothing. Upstairs El was sleeping the sleep of the five months' pregnant. Satchmo had taken to curling up in the hallway outside the bedroom door, maybe out of protectiveness or to avoid Peter's nocturnal prowling. 

Peter had never felt so alone, not even after Siegel. He couldn't talk to El. She'd dealt with her grief months ago. She was happy. He was supposed to be happy with her. 

So he sat on the couch in the dark or paced the patio, passing the grinding hours until exhaustion would reach up and claim him. It was becoming a routine. 

"It wasn't."

Peter roused himself to look toward the corner of the room where the words were coming from. Auditory hallucinations—that had to be a side-effect of sleep deprivation. Except it sounded real, so real, and it wasn't just auditory. He could make out the slim shadow of a man, gray and murky. The shape of a hat. 

"Neal?" Hope was a stranglehold, cutting off his air and bruising his throat. Sweat broke across his skin. His own voice, a stranger's whisper in the dark.

"I'm telling you, Peter, it wasn't your fault."

Peter dragged in a ragged breath and lunged for the light-switch, screwing up his eyes against the sudden glare. 

The room was empty. 

He scrubbed his hands over his face and went to get a beer. Just one.

 

*

 

Two nights later he was at the dining table, making notations in a case file. If he couldn't sleep, he might as well work. 2:18AM.

"Insurance fraud, huh?" Neal leaned across the table to read Peter's notes upside down. "Gotta say, I don't miss that."

Peter froze. There was no mistake this time: Neal was in his shirtsleeves, wearing a blue tie. His cuffs were rolled up, his hair slightly disheveled as if he'd just run his hand through it. He looked younger than he had in years, young and brilliant and full of promise. He met Peter's stare and his lips quirked. "Hey, Butch."

"What are you doing here?" Peter couldn't look away, scared if he did that Neal would vanish. Or that he wouldn't. Terrified he was going crazy, and so goddamned relieved to see his friend that madness felt like a small price to pay.

Neal gave one of his tiny cryptic shrugs. "Where else am I gonna go?"

Peter had tried not to think about that, had clung to his rejection of judgment and eternal suffering. Anyway, human laws didn't extend beyond the grave. "You're a good person. You helped a lot of people."

Neal smiled fondly, as if Peter were missing the point. "Tell me about the case."

Peter gave him the bare bones, then more detail, lines of enquiry, as Neal asked questions and the problem came to life in the air between them. God, he'd missed this. Working together. The interplay of realization and wit. "I wanted you to be free," he burst out, interrupting Neal's suggestion they subpoena the auction house. "I wanted you to have the right to leave, but I never wanted you to go."

"You were my best friend." Neal's gaze was clear, no bullshit.

Peter gritted his teeth. "If we could go back—"

Neal leaned back in his chair, shook his head. "There were only a few ways it could have ended."

"You were my—" But Peter couldn't find the right word. _My friend. My other half._ They were either too weak or too romantic, and it had never been romantic. It was visceral. Like losing a vital organ or the ability to make sense of the world. The last three years had been Technicolor and triumphant, dizzying highs and sharp painful lows. Now everything was flat and empty, and Peter was faking that nothing had changed. "You were my best adventure."

"We had some good times." Neal smiled, his eyes alight. "Remember when we took down—"

"Don't." Peter couldn't bear it. He closed his eyes, rubbed them. When he looked up again, Neal had gone.

 

*

 

A few nights later. 1:56AM, out on the patio. Neal leaned against the window so all Peter could see was a silhouette and the three-dimensional curves of his shoulder and cheek. He was wearing the hat again.

Peter paced, kept his voice low so he wouldn't disturb the neighbors or El. "Where did we go wrong?"

"Peter, you don't want to talk about this." Neal sounded solid and reasonable. "How's Elizabeth doing?"

Peter held up his hand. "I keep thinking there must have been a point, something I did—If I hadn't brought Kramer in—" Kramer had sent a sympathy card after the shooting. Peter returned it unopened. "If—"

"Listen to me. It wasn't your fault." Neal pushed off the wall and stepped into Peter's path. "Stop doing this to yourself."

"It was my fault." It was the one thing Peter knew for sure. "I was responsible—for the sting, for you. You activated your tracker. That was a call for backup. I should have got there sooner. I should have let Keller get away."

"No, Peter. You had to get Keller. You know what he was like. It was the only way to protect your family." Neal was so close now, even in the dark Peter could see his lashes, the crinkles around his eyes. He was older this time and determined. 

"You were my family." 

Neal turned his head, looking away, the line of his jaw sharp as he swallowed. Peter realized all the times Neal had said that, said he was family, made jokes about it, Peter had never said it back. 

After a long moment, Neal met Peter's eye again. "That means a lot. But Peter, you know sometime you're going to have to let me go."

"Is that what you want?" Peter pressed his lips together. "What am I saying, it's what you've always wanted."

Neal turned side-on, looking out into the night. His mouth curved into a whimsical smile, nostalgic. "I would have done anything in the world for you and Elizabeth." 

"I know. Me too." It took Peter a minute to get his voice under control again. "But I'm not the Bonnie and Clyde type."

Neal breathed a laugh, let his head drop in a nod.

"I have responsibilities, El."

"That's right," said Neal. "That was always part of the deal."

Peter studied his profile, the familiar angles. He wanted to clasp him by the shoulder, but the fear of reaching out and finding nothing but thin air kept his hand at his side. "'Kid, the next time I say let's go to Bolivia, let's _go_ to Bolivia.'"

Neal laughed out loud, wavered, vanished.

After a while, Peter dried his face on his sleeve and went inside to get a Tylenol.

 

*

 

Peter only saw him one more time that winter. 

After the last time, El had commented on the circles under Peter's eyes and made him promise to try to sleep through the night, and he'd been managing okay, it had been getting easier, but tonight he had a cold and wanted to spare her his germs and snoring. He slept restlessly on the couch, woke feverish and stuffy-nosed while it was still dark. Rain clattered on the windows. The luminous hands on his watch read a few minutes to four. He plucked a tissue from the box on the coffee table.

Neal was sitting on the floor, back to the bookcase, knees bent. Watching him. "Hey, Mario. Been bumped to the couch?"

"Voluntarily." Peter sat up, his heart thumping, and aimed his used tissue at the waste paper basket in the corner. "You're back."

"I can go if you'd rather."

"No," said Peter quickly. He tried to make out Neal's expression in the gloom. "How're you doing?"

"Can't complain." He sounded sanguine. Smug. He sounded like Neal. "You?"

"Fine. Busy at work." Peter waited, but Neal didn't ask after the cases. Peter coughed and pulled the blanket around his shoulders. "El wants to name the baby after you."

Neal's gaze was searching, even in the dark. "You don't."

"I don't know." Peter still couldn't say the name without it hurting his throat, and he wasn't sure he was ready to give up that ache. "He's not a replacement."

"Let Mozzie babysit for a few years, you might be surprised," said Neal with an audible grin.

"No," said Peter, firm and reflexive. Then he looked at Neal and softened. "Maybe." He blew his nose again. "Wish you were here to help me figure it out."

Neal's outline wavered, seemed further away. "You'll be fine. Trust me."

"Okay." Peter closed his eyes wearily, felt the brief unmistakable press of a hand on his shoulder. He didn't open his eyes again, didn't want to see if Neal had gone. He lay down, huddled in his blanket, and went back to sleep.

 

END


End file.
